Last year was the most shocking and traumatic of my life. Out of the blue, my husband, Nick, father to my five-year-old daughter, Bethany, failed to come home one evening. He was eventually found collapsed in his van, and was later diagnosed with a secondary brain tumour.

Nick endured brain surgery and radiotherapy, but never had a moment's let-up before the next crisis hit. They found the primary cancer in his colon and operated again, but a few short weeks later they confirmed the tumours were back in his brain. By the end of the year, we were utterly exhausted and knew he had only a short time left to live. But the worst was yet to come - and some of the shocks were not just of natural causes, but concerned the care services available to us at home.

In December, it became clear that Nick needed somebody to be with him all night. He was very weak, and getting increasingly confused. He needed somebody to empty his colostomy bag (or he, the bed and the bedroom became the most indescribable mess) and give him his painkillers.

The first weekend we struggled through with the help of some really kind friends. Come Monday morning, in my naivety I was expecting the various statutory and voluntary agencies to come up with a package of help to provide regular night cover - an expectation which turned out to be unrealistic.

I was keeping a daily journal at this time, which was a lifeline. Here is an extract for that day: "Got a phone call at 2.30pm to say there's no night cover tonight, and very little available all week. Felt very abandoned and had a major cry. I had to tell poor Bethany to go away and leave me alone while I tried to sort some things out, and she wandered off to bed with her whole body drooping and sagging and her head hanging down ... I just do not know what on earth I'm supposed to do, and I can't believe that I'm just left."

We had been very impressed with the amount of support available to us up to this point, with people visiting to talk things over and a wonderfully helpful GP. But this was the crunch. All the services together could only provide cover for three - possibly four - nights a week, and nobody had any solution as to what was supposed to happen the other nights. I was even asked if I could not stay up with Nick at night, but I was already absolutely on my knees by the end of each day and nobody was available to sit with him during the next day to let me snatch some sleep. Neither could friends and relatives come and stay up all night if they had work the next day, or young children to look after.

Eventually, we survived because one of Nick's nieces happened to be made redundant and came down from her home town to stay with us for several nights at a time. It totally disrupted her young life (and not many young women of her age would have dealt with all the mess), and she had to tread very carefully to avoid losing her benefits.

In the new year, though, things got worse again. Nick's niece got a new job and had to leave us. Nick was much weaker, and constantly in danger of falling, while being very confused at times (he would regularly get up in the night looking for his bowl of breakfast cornflakes). And then he had a major epileptic fit. It was no longer safe to leave him alone at any time during the day or night. How was I supposed to manage now, with my young daughter to get to school (the car being the only means of getting her there, and no other pupils living anywhere near us)?

Again, it was a major shock. There was no scheduled daytime care available, even to cover my absence for half an hour at a time. So every day turned into a nightmare of tenuous, last-minute arrangements, relying on nervous elderly people, anybody I could possibly find to hand, who could come and sit with Nick and call an ambulance if needed. They certainly would not have been able to help him physically if he fell or got stuck anywhere - he was still a big and heavy man.

Social services insisted it was a matter for the NHS, while the health authority said it could not provide the regular input of help we needed. Here is another extract from my journal: "I just cried and cried with exhaustion and despair. Absolutely feeling that I am at the end of me, and wanting to crawl into a hole and stay there. And worried too that forcing myself to carry on all the time may in itself give me a breakdown. Wishing I could have a physical illness to just let me lie down and give up, so somebody else would have to take over. I simply can't carry on ... terrible struggle to make lunch ... just about managed to get through the evening. Bethany getting up and complaining of horrible pictures in her head and the walls of the room closing in on her."

Three weeks later, the day after social services finally got a package of help organised for us, Nick went to the hospice. I simply couldn't carry on. He died there a few days later. He had said he wanted to stay at home with me and his beloved Bethany as long as we could possibly manage, but he did say he didn't actually mind where he "passed through the door". At least I finally had the time to be able to sit with him and love him as he lay unconscious.

Now, months later, I still feel upset about the absence of real hands-on care that we needed. So much money goes towards cancer charities, and hospice care (which is very wonderful) must be very expensive. So why was more care not possible at home? As it is, I look back at our last two months and remember only a blur of exhaustion, pain and struggle, with Bethany living in confusion and fright in the midst of this, aware that her daddy was dying. And these were our last few, so precious, loving weeks together.

I believe the local agencies have taken some note of our plight. But I don't know whether or not it has led to any real changes. I was so shocked that we could be left at such risk and under such terrible stress, even with a young child involved. How many other, untold, similar stories are there of "caring" at home?